Mission Impossible: Firestorm
by mainframe56
Summary: Ethan Hunt has a new mission: recover the Firestorm, a revolutionary new weapon that has been stolen. But he must be careful. Firestorm is deadly. Firestorm is unstoppable. Firestorm is the future.
1. Pyrostar

1

**Pyrostar**

The glass doors slid open. Shiny new black shoes strode confidently along the corridor. They came to a halt outside another door, but this one was made of thick steel. It did not look inviting. It bore a sign that said, "AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY". The man pressed a hand to a scanner beside it. It read his palm, and after a moment it bleeped and flashed green. "_Welcome, Mr Vane_," said a computerised voice. The large door swung open silently.

Maxwell Vane entered the laboratory. He didn't glance around; he had been here often enough. Instead, he walked straight through it to a small glass door set into one wall, which led to his own office.

His personal secretary, Gail Ventura, was waiting. "Good morning, Mr Vane."

"Good morning, Gail. Well?"

Gail nodded. "Project Firestorm is now complete. We are ready to commence the testing."

Vane smiled, and shot her. She didn't realise at first. It was only when she noticed that: one, Vane had a gun in his hand; two, that there was a sudden pain in her chest; and three, there was a dark red stain spreading across her blouse. She folded up silently.

The door opened. Vane looked up at the newcomer. "How did you get on?" he asked.

The other man nodded. "They are all dead. Scientists die easily."

"Hey, watch yourself, Darter," said Vane, smiling. "I'm a scientist too, you know."

"But you don't use the title "doctor" though, do you?"

Vane shrugged. "That is irrelevant. Come on."

It had worked extremely well. Darter had entered earlier today, in a white coat, carrying a clipboard. He had presented a note signed by Maxwell Vane. Of course the guard had let him in. He had come up here, used a glove that had Vane's fingerprints on it, and entered the lab. Then he simply went about his business.

And his business was killing. He was a paid assassin. He was here because he was working for a man. But that man was not Vane, who was also employed by the same person.

Darter and Vane had a job to do. Vane went over to a briefcase that was sitting open on the table. He shut it carefully, before Darter could see inside. Darter was curious. He didn't know what secrets had been developed in this lab, but he knew that it was something dangerous.

Vane moved over to a computer, and started typing. Darter picked up the briefcase gingerly. "Don't worry," said Vane, seeing him hesitating. "It's quite safe. For now, anyway." He turned back to the computer. "There," he said, hitting a last key. "It is done."

Darter nodded, and, as he had been instructed, located a rack of test tubes. He selected one labelled FIRESTORM: FINAL RESULT and laid it on the work surface. Then he took a small device out of his pocket, and set it beside the tube. "Okay, let's go," he said.

The two men walked out of the room. Vane took care to close the door tightly. They made their way to the lift, Darter still carrying the briefcase as though it could explode at any second.

On the ground floor, Vane nodded as they walked past the security guard. "I'm just taking my guest out for a spot of breakfast, Chris. Can I bring you anything?"

Chris the guard waved, and said, "Thanks, but no thanks, Mr Vane."

Vane and Darter walked out of the tall building. It said PYROSTAR above the door, and below the word was a smaller sentence: "Lighting the way to the future". Vane smiled up at it.

When they had put several yards between them and the Pyrostar building, Darter asked, "Now?"

Vane nodded.

Darter turned around and looked back at the building. It towered above everything else. He felt in his pocket and pulled out a small box with a single button on it.

He raised the box, and pressed the button.

Then, they hurried on. It wasn't long before people in the street noticed the smoke billowing out of a window on the twentieth floor of Pyrostar. Then the wall of the room melted, and it was revealed that the lab Vane and Darter had come from was burning. And burning fast.

Fire engines arrived, to try and combat it, but there was no hope. The fire had now spread along the entire floor, and was moving down. The people on the lower floors were being evacuated. The people on the floors above the blaze had no way out.

After a while, the fire had burned through the entire lower half of the building. Now only the skeletal structure was left. And it too was melting.

Without warning, the building suddenly gave way, and crashed down onto the street.

Vane and Darter were already on a plane. Vane smiled, as he thought of what must have happened to the Pyrostar skyscraper when Firestorm was unleashed upon it.

Who would have thought that the company's slogan, "Lighting the way to the future", would actually come true?

Because Firestorm was the way to the future.

It just wouldn't be a pleasant one for a lot of people.


	2. Salamander

2

**Salamander**

Ethan Hunt let out a long breath, watching it crystallise in front of him. He was bored. He had been waiting for at least two hours now.

He glanced up at the moon. It shone brightly, giving the landscape around him an eerie glow. As if it needed it. It was a particularly unforgiving environment.

He was somewhere in the middle of Northern Russia. He was here on assignment. It was simple enough – there was a meeting arranged between Russian Separatists and the Russian Mafiya. Apparently, some money was going to change hands, as well as some brand-new weapons. His mission was to ensure that he recovered those weapons, so they didn't fall into the wrong hands.

A crackle in his ear made him jump. He then realised it was only the tiny microphone that he had stuck in when he landed in Russia.

He now heard a voice in the microphone. "Good evening, Mr Hunt. I'm overseeing this operation."

He sighed. It was Salamander.

His real name was Seymour Wray, but everyone called him Salamander, on account of him being small, slimy, and unattractive. He was usually in charge of operations that took place well outside of the USA, so it was no surprise that he was running this one.

Salamander continued speaking. "Mr Hunt, I trust you understand the importance of this mission?"

Ethan shrugged. "I just do my job. That's all."

"Listen to me, Ethan. This is very important. We don't know what sort of weaponry is being exchanged here, but we have heard rumours that it is revolutionary, cutting-edge stuff. If we could get our hands on it, it may even replace the nuclear warhead!"

Ethan snorted. "Please. I'm supposed to be buying something that fits into a briefcase. It's not a nuclear bomb."

"Your disguise is okay, then?" inquired Salamander.

"As per instructions, I have acquired the face and voice of the leader of the Separatists, Mikhail Volanakov. You dealt with the rest of them?"

"Don't worry," said Salamander, and Ethan could tell that he was smiling. "The Separatists won't be showing up tonight."

"Why couldn't you have given me a precise time?" complained Ethan. "I've been here for two hours now!"

"You know why. We can't take any chances with this assignment."

Just then, Ethan heard the sound of an engine approaching. "There're here," he said.

Salamander paused for a moment, and then said, "Okay. I'm watching you on the satellite image. Do what you've been trained to do."

There was a click, and Ethan was left by himself. But not for long. A Jeep appeared out of the gloom. It drove up to Ethan's car, and stopped. Ethan patted his hip, checking his gun was still there, and got out.

There were three of them. The one in charge, who Ethan recognised as Vladimir Petravich, walked up to him and embraced him. Ethan returned the embrace, but without enthusiasm.

"You have the weapons?" he asked, in Volanakov's voice.

"You have the money?" asked Petravich.

Ethan reached into his jacket, and handed Petravich an envelope. Petravich checked inside it. It was full of money. He rifled through it, checking they were all genuine. Finally, he nodded, and turned to the other two. "Get the weapon," he snapped.

"Just one?" said Ethan. "I thought we were getting more than that."

Petravich smiled at him, and said, "Wait and see, my friend."

His two friends had gone around to the back of the Jeep. They returned with a small attaché case.

"That's it?" Ethan asked incredulously. How could that small thing contain any sort of power?

"Watch this." Petravich opened the case, and pulled out a single test tube, containing a dark red liquid.

Ethan was suddenly wary. Was he dealing with biological weapons here? Ethan had had a bad experience with them in Australia a while ago.

To his horror, Petravich opened the test tube. Petravich saw his reaction, and said, "Do not worry. This is not some sort of disease, or toxin. Allow me to show you."

He put his finger over the end of the tube, and up-ended it. Then he replaced the lid of the tube. He now had a small amount of the liquid on his finger.

Petravich walked over to Ethan's car, and smeared the liquid onto the door. He then walked back over to the Jeep. "Stand back," he cautioned. Then he raised a gun, and shot the car door.

The entire car exploded. It was extraordinary – one second, it was a reasonably nice Jaguar that Ethan had been lent while he was in Russia. The next, it was simply a fireball, blazing and illuminated the area.

Ethan turned to Petravich. Petravich was now pointing the gun at him. The other two guys were already in the car, and had started the engine.

"Well done," said Petravich. "You are one of the first people to witness the power of this new weapon. Now, take this message to your people: we have Firestorm. Tell them that. And also, tell them that we will not discuss terms. What we ask for is what we will get, or else we will be forced to take action."

Petravich got into the car. The engine revved, and it took off. Ethan acted quickly. He drew his gun, and shot at the Jeep. A howl of pain told him that he had found his mark, and one of the two guards slumped in his seat.

But then the Jeep was gone, and Ethan was alone in the middle of nowhere with only the remains of his car to keep him warm.


	3. The Mission

3

**The Mission**

"Well, at least you're okay. That's the main thing," observed Swanbeck.

Ethan laughed hollowly. "I failed the mission. Stop trying to avoid it."

Swanbeck shrugged. "There were unforeseen circumstances. Anyway, now we have a new mission for you."

"Hey, stop!" said Ethan. "You're not supposed to do this face-to-face. I like something that will self-destruct in five seconds, you know?"

"Too late," replied Swanbeck.

Ethan sank back into the chair. He didn't normally sit down when his IMF chief was talking to him, but he had had a rough flight home.

Swanbeck typed something into his computer, and then turned the screen round so Ethan could see.

A photograph of a man appeared on the screen. As Ethan looked at it, Swanbeck began talking.

"We may have traced the source of this "Firestorm" that Petravich boasted about. The man you're looking at is Maxwell Dennis Vane. He is head of Research at Pyrostar."

"Pyrostar?" said Ethan. The name was vaguely familiar to him.

"Remember that skyscraper that burned down and collapsed in Los Angeles last week? That was the Pyrostar complex. No one knows the cause of the fire, but one of the guards who escaped from it reported that Vane had left mere minutes before the fire started, and that he had been accompanied a strange man. Using the description the guard gave us, we were able to identify the mystery man." Swanbeck typed something. The screen changed. Now an African-looking man took the place of Vane's face.

"Morgan Darter. We've dealt with him before. He's an assassin, and a good one at that. He tried to bump off Salamander a couple of weeks ago, if you remember. He's dangerous."

"Yeah, I remember him," said Ethan. "So what exactly was Vane researching?"

"Pyrostar, as the name implies, is primarily concerned with fire. That is, ways to generate heat as cheaply as possible, in order to save energy. Vane was working on a top secret project called…"

"Let me guess," Ethan interrupted. "The secret project was called Firestorm."

Swanbeck nodded. "But we have no idea what Firestorm is. But I do know this. The fire that destroyed Pyrostar was unlike anything seen before. We have reason to believe that Firestorm is capable of generating a massive amount of heat. But now it has been stolen by the Mafiya. Mr Hunt, your mission, should you choose to accept it, will be to go after Firestorm and recover it. Start by visiting the survivors of Pyrostar, see if they can tell you anything. Then try and track down Vane and Darter."

"Do I get any help?" asked Ethan.

Swanbeck nodded, and then said, "I guessed you'd want Luther Stickell, so he's already on his way to L.A. I had to give him a pilot, so I sent Sean Crain. Does that meet with your approval?"

"Yes," replied Ethan.

"Good. In that case, go and talk to Salamander."

"Why?" asked Ethan, a horrible suspicion forming in his mind. "Is he in charge of this mission?"

Swanbeck smiled, and nodded his head. "He feels that he messed up on the arms deal, so he wants to redeem himself by finding Firestorm."

Ethan heaved a sigh. "Okay."

He left the office, and made his way to another room. In this one, he found Salamander.

Seymour Wray was a slimy looking man. He had long dark hair that shone with grease and was peppered with dandruff. He seemed to be permanently hunched in his seat. He had a protruding stomach. A slight moustache grew on his upper lip. His teeth were crooked and yellow. He had a slimy personality, too. Ethan didn't like him much. Wray was a bit big-headed.

"Ah, Mr Hunt!" said Wray, his tone implying that he was comparing Ethan unfavourably to a piece of dog excrement. "Glad to see you're okay. That was a bit of a nasty fight with Petravich, wasn't it? I watched the whole thing on the satellite. Lucky you managed to get one of the guards. Anyway, here are all the things you'll need for your trip to Los Angeles." He waved a hand at a table with lots of equipment on it.

"Just take your pick," he added, as Ethan went over to the table and picked up a gun. Ethan checked the magazine.

"Do you really think you'll need a gun?" Salamander asked.

"Well," said Ethan, "I personally think that whoever wanted Firestorm is a very dangerous person. I think that they'll go to any lengths to get what they want."

Salamander nodded. "I think you're right. Be careful, Ethan. This sounds impossible."

Ethan smiled. "Impossible is my business."


	4. In Hot Pursuit

4

**In Hot Pursuit**

The plane touched down on the runway at LAX. Ethan unbuckled his seat belt.

"Y'know, you're not supposed to do that until the little light goes off," said a voice to his right.

Ethan grinned. "You never even put yours on the whole flight, Luther."

Luther Stickell grinned back. He was a bald black man, sitting in the corner of the jet with his laptop. He had worked with Ethan on a number of occasions already, and they were good friends.

"We're here," came a voice from the cockpit. This one had an unmistakeable Scottish accent.

"Thanks, Sean. I hadn't noticed," Ethan replied sarcastically.

"Hey, hey, hey! I'm just doin' my job," Sean protested. He came into the cabin.

Sean Crain was born and bred in Scotland, as could be heard. He was taller than Ethan, but he was quite gangly. He had very pale skin and a nest of curly red hair on his head. He had transferred to IMF from the Royal Air Force, and became their foremost pilot. He had a blunt, but easy-going attitude, and even though he could be a little abrasive at times, he was immensely likeable.

He opened the door, and the three agents stepped down onto the hot tarmac. It was a swelteringly hot day in Los Angeles, and within five minutes of walking, all three of them were drenched in sweat. They made their way to a car, and got in.

It was like an oven inside the car. Sean yelped when he put his hand on the leather seat. "It's too hot!" he complained.

Ethan shrugged. "Could we walk?"

"Where do you wanna go?" asked Sean.

"I'd like to have a look at the remains of the Pyrostar building. Then, I want to talk to that guard who saw Vane and Darter leaving the building, if he's still around."

Luther consulted his laptop. "Pyrostar's not too far away. We could walk there easily enough. But the security guard, Chris Peterson, lives on the other side of the city. There's no way I'm walking that distance in this heat."

Eventually, after some debate, they came up with a plan. By leaning into the car and releasing the handbrake, and putting it into neutral, they were able to wheel the car into a shaded area. "There," said Ethan. "By the time we get back, it should be tolerable."

They set off for Pyrostar.

* * *

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the city, Morgan Darter picked up the phone. "Hello?" 

"Darter, it's me," said the voice. It was a little distorted, but there was no doubt who the voice belonged to. It was his boss.

"Is he here, then?" asked Darter.

The voice laughed. "Yes, Darter. Hunt has arrived in Los Angeles. As far as I know, he wants to see the ruins of Pyrostar first, and then he'll talk to the guard. It's what I would do. Now, you know what to do."

"Yes."

"And when they're dead, go and meet Vane at Archangel. Carry out your mission there. Then head to the island and wait for me."

"What about the farmhouse? Don't you need me there?" said Darter, puzzled.

"I only need one person with me, and I'm not expecting any trouble from the delegates. Vane will suffice."

"Very well. Consider it done, sir."

* * *

The car was cool now, and they made slow progress through the city. None of them were speaking. They had all seen what was left of Pyrostar. 

It was a terrible sight. Even though it had been a week since it had burned down, the authorities had made little effort to clean it up. Most of the steel was still lying in a mangled mess on the road. The whole area had been closed down to vehicles, so it turned out that leaving the car was a good idea.

After a protracted silence, Luther spoke. "What sort of person does something like that?"

Sean, who was driving, shook his head. "I don't know. A psychopath."

"Either that," said Ethan, "or someone who wanted Firestorm so much that the lives of the people in the building became insignificant to them."

"So did Firestorm do that?" asked Sean.

"I don't know," replied Ethan. "To be honest, we don't really know what Firestorm is, apart from dangerous."

Luther was looking at his laptop again. "According to the computer, Peterson lives in this street."

Sean nodded, and pulled into the side of the road. Ethan got out.

"Ethan, wait!" said Luther. He handed Ethan a watch.

"I've already got one, thanks," said Ethan, holding up his wrist to prove it.

"Not like this one. It's got a small tracking device in it, so we don't lose you." Luther handed it to him.

"You think there'll be trouble?" Ethan asked him.

Luther grinned. "You're going to be there. Of course there will."

Ethan laughed, and headed off down the street. He had figured that Chris Peterson would be nervous, and so had decided to go alone.

He got to within ten feet of Peterson's house without mishap. Sadly, things suddenly and violently changed for the worst.

A car pulled up beside Ethan. Glancing at it, Ethan recognised Peterson. He took a step towards the car, wearing what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

The car exploded. Ethan threw himself to the ground and covered his face. He looked up. The car had been completely destroyed. Looking beyond it, through the flames, Ethan saw that a man had emerged from a nearby alley.

It was Morgan Darter.

And he was carrying a rocket launcher.

Ethan couldn't believe it. How had he known that Ethan and his team were in LA?

"Damn!" muttered Darter. He had killed Chris Peterson, but Hunt was still alive. There was no time to reload; Hunt was already on his feet. Darter turned and ran for it.

Ethan gave chase. It was all he could do at the moment. Darter ran down the street, and seemed to be trying to put another rocket in the bazooka. Ethan was prepared to duck if Darter turned.

Then Darter saw a small café with a few motorbikes sitting outside it. Without hesitation, he fired a rocket into the café, and leapt onto a bike. Even as Ethan caught up to him, he sped away.

But Ethan wasn't giving up easily. He too leapt onto a bike, and tore off after Darter, who had fortunately abandoned his rocket launcher.

Darter wove this way and that through the traffic, amidst blaring horns. He seemed to have a fixed destination in mind, but Ethan didn't bother working out where it was. It was all he could do to keep the assassin in sight.

It was only when he passed a sign reading LAX that it dawned on him.

Darter was flying out of the city.

Sure enough, the African turned into the gate Ethan had left by earlier, and roared across the tarmac to a waiting plane. But unlike the small private jet Ethan had flown in on, this was a big cargo plane, with the word ARCHANGEL on its side. What did that mean?

There was no time to contemplate it. Darter was already running up the steps to the plane, shouting something to his men. His disappeared into the cabin, but quickly reappeared with a machine gun. Ethan hadn't been prepared for this!

He pulled the bike to a screeching halt, and dropped down beside it, using it for cover. Darter went back inside, and the steps were removed.

The plane's engines started up.

Ethan knew he had to be on that plane. But how? The door was closed. There was no way…

Ethan saw it. He leapt up and ran to the plane, before it built up too much speed for him to catch up with it.

He grabbed onto the metal frame that held the wheels in place, and pulled himself in.

The plane took off. The wheels folded up and the door closed.

Ethan was onboard the plane, but he was weaponless, trapped, and had no idea where they were going.


	5. Archangel

5

**Archangel**

Everything was black. Ethan had no idea how long he had been here. The plane droned on through the sky, heading, presumably, for "Archangel", wherever that was.

Ethan shifted around a bit. He had been unable to get comfortable since the flight began, and he didn't dare try to get up into the main body of the plane. Worse, he needed to go to the toilet. There was no opportunity to do so here.

He just hoped that the watch Luther had given him would help them follow him. Ethan shivered. It had grown distinctly colder as the flight progressed, implying that they were heading north.

At least he wasn't hungry. He had eaten a huge meal on the flight here, mainly because of Sean Crain. Sean's explanation was, "Well, I thought Luther would have eaten a lot… he's a big guy, y'know?". Ethan had made sure Luther didn't hear him.

He noticed a change in the sound of the engines. At the same time, the floor tilted downwards. Finally, they were on their descent.

It only occurred to Ethan what was about to happen at the last moment. He quickly grabbed the wheel strut, just as the landing gear opened.

He was greeted by a blast of freezing air that knocked him off balance. With a small gasp, he stumbled and fell out of the plane. He had an impression of whiteness, rushing towards him, and then he landed face down.

Ethan wasn't sure if he was conscious, or even still alive. He was icy cold, and wet, and hurt all over. That seemed to indicate that he was still alive, at any rate. Slowly, he raised his head.

Snow. That was all he saw, stretching out in all directions. Except for to his left, where he saw a large concrete structure surrounded by a wire mesh fence. A large placard near the entrance read: ARCHANGEL RESEARCH FACILITY. NO UNAUTHORISED ACCESS.

They had arrived.

He watched the cargo plane land on a small airstrip. He had to get in there, and find out what was going on. But first things first. There were a few trees dotted around the place, and he hurried behind one to relieve himself. That taken care of, he began to examine the perimeter fence.

It took him a few minutes to realise that there was a large hole in it.

He hadn't noticed it, naturally, because he had assumed that such a thing couldn't exist. But there it was. Wary that it might be a trap, Ethan stole towards it, keeping behind available trees.

Something beeped. Ethan realised it was the watch. Holding it up, he was surprised to hear a tinny voice emanating from a small speaker. "_Ethan?_"

"Luther?"

"_We're tracking you, Ethan. What are you doing in Russia?"_

"Russia?" Ethan looked around. It did look like Russia. Something occurred to him. "Am I anywhere near the place I had the disastrous meeting with Petravich?"

"_Yes. You're only three kilometres north of it. Is that important?"_

"Maybe. I have the feeling I'm going to find Petravich in Archangel. If he really is behind it, then perhaps I can get some answers."

"_Okay. Well, judging by the fact that you probably are stranded, Sean and I are going to fly to you and pick you up."_

"Right. Just be prepared for trouble."

"_Always am, Ethan, always am_. _Good luck._"

The watch fell silent. Ethan considered what Luther had told him. This was only three kilometres away from the previous rendezvous? It was too much of a coincidence. Petravich had to be here. And now Darter, who had stolen Firestorm in the first place, was also here. This was Ethan's chance to find out what the Mafiya intended to do with the weapon. And maybe he could work out what exactly Firestorm _was_.

He looked back at the hole in the fence. It was too good to be true, surely –

Then he saw a guard walk past. He looked dead on his feet. Pale skin, smoking a cigarette, he was shuffling as though he had only just got out of bed. And then it dawned on Ethan. Security was practically non-existent here, because they were so far out in the middle of nowhere. The facility's safety lay in the fact that no one could find it. The flat roof was covered in a layer of snow, meaning it would be almost invisible from above. They obviously felt they were safe.

This was good news for Ethan. He was able to sneak in through the fence, and he began looking around.

He made his way to the airstrip he had seen, just in time to watch Darter carrying a crate of something off the plane. Suspecting that it might be Firestorm, Ethan followed him.

Darter took the crate into a large, open-fronted building. Most of it was open to the air, allowing Ethan to see inside.

It was a laboratory. Dozens of people in white coats were scurrying all over the place, carrying test tubes, beakers, equipment…

There was no doubt about it. This was where Firestorm was being made. Darter must have given the sample he stole to these men, and that allowed them to make more of it. As Ethan watched, a man with grey hair and thick spectacles approached Darter.

"Ah, mmh, Mr Darter, mmh, sir. Just in, mmh, time."

"Uh, yeah," said Darter, clearly uncomfortable. "Is he here?"

"I'm here, Darter," said Maxwell Vane, emerging from a doorway. It was clear from the way he walked who was in charge here. Darter immediately ceased being a tough guy, and was now acting like a servant.

Vane had changed since the previous week. Burning down your workplace and killing most of your colleagues can affect a person. He was weaker, but put on a tough attitude to cover the fact. It worked quite well, since he now had Darter at his beck and call.

"Okay, Darter, the last batch of Firestorm is ready. Here, I'll take it," he said, turned to a woman who was carrying…

Ethan couldn't believe his eyes. It must be a joke.

She was holding a basket that was loaded with bottles of red wines. It must be some sort of hoax. But then Ethan remembered the meeting with Petravich. Firestorm was a red liquid. And putting it in wine bottles made it easy to get through Customs.

That reminded Ethan, he still hadn't seen Petravich. Where was he?

Vane took the basket, and walked in the direction of the plane. "And, mmh, our, mmh, payment?" the old man asked.

Vane nodded. "Darter, give them what is due to them."

Darter smiled, and opened the crate. From here, Ethan could see that it was full of machine guns.

Darter came up firing. He sprayed bullets all around the room, smashing glassware and killing people in all directions. Vane watched with a slight smile in his face. Ethan was horrified.

When the massacre was over, Darter grabbed the crate and the two of them ran to the plane. Ethan didn't stand a chance of getting back on it, but he had the presence of mind to throw the watch at Darter. It landed in the crate without being noticed, thankfully.

As the plane roared off into the sky, Ethan went back to the lab. It was a mess. Blood and broken glass was everywhere. There were no survivors.

But as Ethan turned to leave, he heard a groan. He quickly looked around. Suddenly, a fallen table was kicked away. There was a young man under it. He was in pain, with blood seeping through his white coat, but he was alive. Ethan ran over to him.

"Listen," he said. "This is important. We need to hurry. Where are they taking Firestorm?"

"Don't know," the man mumbled. "We made it, that's all. Our contract was: no questions asked."

"That's fine. Question two: what exactly is Firestorm?"

The man laughed, but then choked and coughed up a little blood. He was dying, and Ethan needed more answers.

Finally, the wounded scientist explained: "Think of it as the most volatile, combustible chemical in existence. A tiny spark will turn it into a huge fireball. That's all I can say. You'd need to see it for yourself."

"Okay, then, what about Petravich? Is he here?"

The man stared at him. "How did you know?"

"Believe me, it was fairly obvious this was a Mafiya job."

"Was it?" The man looked confused. "The Mafiya have nothing to do with it, as far as I know. Darter and Vane work for some American guy."

Ethan was stunned. He had been wrong all along. "Who?"

"Don't know," the man muttered again.

"Alright. Can I talk to Petravich? Is he here?"

The man regarded him with suspicion. "You mean you don't know?"

"Know what?"

"Vladimir Petravich is dead. He died three days ago in an accident. He was our friend, the one who kept the Mafiya away from our secrets. And then he goes and falls down a mountain!" The man coughed, and died.

Ethan moved away from him. He seemed to be a little mad.

Just then, he heard the _thudathudathud _of a helicopter. He ran out. To his immense surprise, it was Luther and Sean.

"What the hell are you two doing here?" he asked, once he had climbed onboard.

Luther grinned, and patted his laptop. "I had you on the satellite. I was watching you, and saw that you didn't follow your watch onto the plane."

"How long were you watching me?" asked Ethan, suspiciously.

"Since you made that majestic dive off the plane."

"You mean you were watching me when I was… you know… behind the tree…?"

Luther cleared his throat, and changed the subject. "I saw you going into the building, so we assumed you'd come out again."

"Doesn't the satellite have thermal something or other that lets you see through the roof?" asked Ethan, still looking a bit put out.

"Nope, never has."

"But that can't be… how did he know about the guard…?"

Luther looked at him. "Uh, Ethan? Did you find anything out about Petravich?"

Ethan looked up. "He's dead," he said, bluntly. "He died three… days… ago…" He faltered. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

Because Vladimir Petravich had died _three_ days ago.

But Ethan had confronted him _two_ days ago.


	6. On Thin Ice

6

**On Thin Ice**

Ethan eventually found himself back in Swanbeck's office, describing the events of the day. Luther and Sean were also present, although Salamander, who should really have been there, wasn't. Swanbeck had explained that Wray's son was playing ice hockey at the local rink, and so Seymour couldn't make it. He would, however, appreciate it if Ethan would stop by after the game and give him a run down of events.

As Ethan talked, he found himself unable to stop yawning. He had had an incredibly busy day, and it was quite late at night now. He had been to Russia and back, after all.

He finished the story by telling Swanbeck about the slight chronological error he had discovered.

"So you say that you met Petravich… after he was dead?" asked Swanbeck, incredulously.

"Probably not, no. I think I've worked it out. I was in disguise, as Mikhail Volanakov, remember?"

"Yes."

"Wait a minute," said Sean. "You mean… the guy you met, he was also in disguise? It wasn't Petravich at all?"

Ethan nodded. "That's what I think."

Luther spoke up. "But, how did he have access to the same kind of technology we do? I thought we were the only organisation with access to the equipment needed to make a realistic face mask."

"We are," said Swanbeck. A sudden chill swept through the room. They all reached the same conclusion at the same time.

"The person behind this…" started Swanbeck.

"… is an IMF agent," the other three men finished in unison.

"Oh, not again," moaned Ethan. "Okay, I can give you Sean Ambrose – he was a sex-crazed psychopath. And then there was Jim Phelps… well, I frankly didn't believe that should have happened. But _another_ one?"

"Well, the question remains as to who exactly is behind this plot. Okay, we've ruled out the Mafiya. The chap Ethan talked to told us that Darter and Maxwell Vane are both working for an American. That would support the possibility of it being one of our agents. So who, then?"

"Well," Sean began, thinking aloud, "it had to be someone who knew about our movements. Someone who knew we were going to LA, and also someone who knew about the meeting with the Mafiya. Someone we wouldn't notice. Maybe someone who has had dealings with the likes of Darter before."

Ethan leapt to his feet. He had finally worked out what had been bothering him. "And someone who couldn't have seen inside a car unless they personally were inside it!" he yelled. He ran to the door.

"Ethan?" said Swanbeck uncertainly. "Where are you going? What are you talking about?"

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Ethan demanded.

"Um, is it?" ventured Luther.

"Yes! Think about it. Who knew all about the mission, right from the start, and is the last person you'd suspect?"

"Who?" The other three asked, looking at him.

Ethan told them. "And I know where to find him," he added, running out.

* * *

Things had come full circle now. Ethan had begun his mission standing in a freezing place, his breath crystallising in front of him. Now he was in exactly the same position. 

The guard had let him into the ice rink, despite the fact that there was no game on tonight. And Ethan knew why, of course. The "guard" was actually Maxwell Vane, who didn't know that Ethan recognised him.

Ethan took a seat directly opposite the large glass box that the commentators would sit in. At the moment, it was shrouded in darkness. But Ethan was in no doubt that it was where the true villain of the piece would make his appearance.

Sure enough, the lights suddenly came on, blinding Ethan. When his eyes adjusted, he saw who was in the box, confirming his suspicions.

"Good evening, Mr Hunt," said Seymour "Salamander" Wray, his voice booming out of the loudspeakers.

"Good evening, Salamander."

Wray laughed. "You're not surprised?"

Ethan shrugged. "I had already worked it out."

Wray looked impressed. "How come?"

"Well, we realised that it was an IMF agent who impersonated Petravich, and I remembered that you had set up that meeting. You were also the one overseeing my trip to Los Angeles. And I remembered that Swanbeck had mentioned that Morgan Darter had tried to kill you a while back. From what I saw of Darter, the fact that you're still alive is suspicious enough. But what really convinced me was a mistake you made."

Salamander smiled. "The fact that there wasn't an ice hockey game on tonight? Or that I don't even have a son?"

"No. It was something you said when I got back from Russia the first time. You knew I had killed one of the guards in the car. It only occurred to me later: the satellite couldn't see through the roof of the Jeep. So how could you have known that one of them was shot? I didn't tell you. No, the only plausible explanation was that you were actually in the vehicle – wearing Vladimir Petravich's face!"

Seymour Wray clapped his hands slowly, applauding Ethan. "Well done, my boy, well done. You've got it all worked out, haven't you?"

"Not quite," replied Ethan. "I'm wondering how I didn't recognise someone like you as a fake from the moment you kissed me as Petravich."

Now Wray laughed. "Observe," he said.

He reached up to his long, greasy hair, and –

Ethan stared. It was a wig. Wray threw it off, revealing his true hair – short, blond and spiky. Then he reached into his mouth and pulled out the awful teeth, which had covered his own perfect white ones. He ripped off the fake moustache, too. And then he undid something behind his back. The flabby stomach dropped to the ground. Finally, he straightened up. Now that he was no longer hunching, it added a good foot to his height.

Wray was actually a young man, no older than twenty five, with blond hair and an impressive physique. He was the sort that girls found extremely attractive. The difference to how Ethan knew him was shocking.

"Well?" said the new and improved Salamander. It was difficult to connect this man with the slimy creature that had been there before, but Ethan was too used to calling him Salamander to stop now.

"I'm speechless," he managed.

"Good, because I'm talking now, and I want you to listen. Please turn your attention to the ice."

Ethan's eyes were drawn downwards to the ice, an area about the size of a swimming pool that was between Salamander and himself. Something was sitting in the very middle of it. Leaning forward, Ethan saw – with a sinking feeling – that it was a bottle of red wine.

"No doubt you can guess what is in the bottle," boomed Wray. "I'm going to treat you to a demonstration of the true power of Firestorm."

He raised something that from this distance looked like a mobile phone. Wray grinned at Ethan. "Your number's up," he said. And pressed a button.

It was almost like a flower bursting into bloom. Either that, or a demonic hand from Hell punching through the ground. The second one is probably more appropriate.

The wine bottle transformed into a tower of flames, that quickly sent out bolts of flame in all directions. That was all Ethan saw, as he ran for a nearby fire escape (horribly apt, he thought as he ran towards it). The plastic seats all around him were melting. Knowing what would happen if he didn't make it gave Ethan an extra burst of speed, and just as he felt the flames licking at his back he burst through the doors. He threw himself to the ground outside, just as another jet blasted over the spot he had just occupied. Had he still been standing, he would have been roasted alive.

He looked back at the ice rink. The building had turned into a huge ball of flame, but Ethan had no doubt that Salamander had escaped. He himself was fortunate enough to be alive.

He got wearily to his feet. He knew that they had to stop Wray, but he had no idea where he had gone, along with Vane.

Firestorm had been used three times now. First, it destroyed an entire skyscraper. Then, Ethan's car. And now an ice rink. The power of the weapon was incredible. And Wray presumably had a lot more of it.

The question was, what was Wray going to do with it?


	7. Firestorm

7

**Firestorm**

Dawn was an hour away yet. It was very early in the morning, but Cletus Howe was already up and ready to face another day's hard work on his farm. He finished getting dressed, and looked back at his wife, asleep in the bed. He decided to make her breakfast in bed – after all, it was her birthday. Humming to himself, he made his way down to the kitchen.

* * *

Some distance away, a group of men were standing on a hillside overlooking the farm. 

These men were a diverse lot; there was an Oriental man, a black man, an American, an Australian, an Egyptian, and an Italian.

Standing apart from them were two others, deep in discussion. You should be familiar with them by now. One was Maxwell Vane. The other was Seymour Wray.

Vane was insisting that Wray seek medical help. Wray was refusing, on the grounds that they were only second degree burns. Vane wished he could agree. But the thing was, Wray hadn't been fast enough to leave the rink the previous night. He now had a horrific scar on his face where the flames had hit him. One whole cheek was an angry red, and it was bubbled and had split in places. It had also affected his left eye, so now it was locked in a permanent squint.

All in all, Salamander had looked better in his disguise.

With a final shake of the head, Wray turned from Vane and addressed the others. "Gentlemen!" he beamed. "It is a great honour to have so many criminals gathered in one place!"

A few of them managed a smile, but most were far too tired to bother. It was far too early in the morning for some of them, and for others (like the Australian, for example) it was the equivalent of late at night.

Even Salamander was weary, but he disguised it. "Anyway," he continued, "you are all here for a purpose. That purpose is this."

He gestured to Vane, who was standing beside a strange object that was about half his height. It had a silk sheet draped over it, covering it. With a flourish, Vane whipped the sheet off, to reveal…

"Oh wow, a missile launcher," the Italian commented. "Never seen one of those before."

"Correct," smiled Wray. "Not like this, you haven't."

Vane handed him a device that looked for all the world like a TV remote. Wray pressed a button. Immediately, the missile twisted round and elevated itself until it was pointing up at an angle. It was poised to launch directly over the farm.

"You requested a demonstration of my new weapon," Wray continued, "and now you will have it. Watch this."

He pressed another button. The rocket suddenly took off, soaring up into the night. "Twinkle, twinkle, little star," Wray sang quietly, "how I wonder what you are. But I know what you are now. You are the most devastating force on the planet. You are unstoppable. You are the way to the future. My future."

The rocket was rising over the corn fields now. It was only a small dot of light in the sky to them.

"Gentlemen," said Wray. "I give you… Firestorm."

He pressed the button.

For a split second, nothing happened. Then, the missile suddenly dissolved. It didn't explode. It just was suddenly not a solid object, but a fireball moving through the night sky. And then it detonated.

Huge jets of flame shot down to the ground in all directions. Where they hit the corn, it became ablaze. Where they hit tarmac, the surface bubbled and boiled and became liquid. And a single tongue of fire struck the farmhouse. It caused the building to immediately become alight.

Jet after jet of fire streamed down, setting fire to everything they came into contact with. There seemed to be no end to it. It was like a never-ending, deadly firework.

And then, quite suddenly, it was over. There was no grand finale, no final bang. The flames simply stopped, and it looked as though there had never been a rocket in the first place.

But on the ground it was a different story. The cornfields were now all alight, and the fire was quickly spreading. There was a tractor parked near them, and it too was on fire, and was slowly sinking into the molten tarmac.

And as for the farmhouse… it was now a towering inferno. There wasn't a chance in hell that someone could have survived in it.

The whole area around where the Firestorm had detonated was now ablaze.

Wray turned to the onlookers. "There you have it," he said.

"What's the range of it?" asked the Oriental man.

"This was only a small version. In terms of the real thing, the flames cover up to 3 square kilometres. You should be at least five kilometres from the point of detonation. And the rocket itself is powered by solar energy, so don't worry about a distant target. This weapon can fly around the whole world twice if it has to." Wray grinned.

"You say it's solar-powered," said the black man. "But it's night time."

Wray nodded. "It charges itself automatically during the day. Then, if it's used in the dark, or on a cloudy day, it uses its own battery, rather than the Sun's energy."

Wray looked around. "Any other questions?"

There was a pregnant pause. Then, the American voiced the thought that was in all of their minds. "How much?"

"That will be subjective," replied Wray. "It depends entirely on the target. If you want me to set fire to a small village in the middle of nowhere, I can do that for very little money. But if you want me to destroy the White House, then it's going to cost you."

The Egyptian put up his hand. "Yes?" said Wray.

"Okay, this missile of yours will destroy a farm. Wonderful. But how do we know it would damage, say, a city? Something made of concrete."

Wray thought about this. "You're right," he said. "I owe you another demonstration. And you will have it. This time, I will choose a large, bustling city, full of people. Where and when I set off Firestorm next is my own business. You'll know about it when it happens."

They all nodded. "So if it works, you have a deal," said the Australian.

"And if it doesn't work," added the Oriental man, "then you have no deal. With any of us."

Wray looked around at them all. "Agreed," he said. "Don't worry; the next demonstration will not fail."


	8. Lacerta

8

**Lacerta**

"Salamander?"

"Salamander."

"_Salamander?_"

"Yes."

Swanbeck rubbed his eyes. It was too early in the morning for this. "When you said, last night, that it was him… well, I honestly didn't believe you. I mean, that overweight, greasy little-"

"It was a disguise." Ethan told him about Salamander's transformation.

Swanbeck leaned back in his chair. "But he's been with us for two years now. He disguised himself for two years? Why?"

"I think I'll ask him myself," Ethan replied. After a nap, he added privately. He still hadn't had any sleep, and it was getting to him. While Wray had been burning down a farmhouse, Ethan had commandeered Luther's computer to try and locate the tracking device. It seemed to still be in America, although there was something odd about the signal.

"You know where he is, then," said Swanbeck, looking slightly relieved.

Ethan shrugged. "Sort of. I know where the Firestorm that Darter stole from Archangel is, and there's a good chance that Salamander is there too."

Swanbeck appeared to reach a decision. "Alright, Ethan. As soon as you can, I want you to find Salamander and stop him using Firestorm."

"But we don't know what he's going to do with it," Ethan pointed out. "Maybe he's just going to sell it to the highest bidder."

Swanbeck shook his head. "I'm afraid not. I was contacted about an hour ago by a certain Thomas Troy. Now, Troy is a gangster. He's in charge of a huge crime syndicate that operates in the USA. Apparently, he attended a little "demonstration" of Firestorm a few hours ago. He filmed the whole thing – a precaution he takes at any meeting he attends. And this is the video, which he emailed me." Swanbeck pressed a button, and a large screen on the wall flickered into life. Ethan watched Seymour Wray's moment of glory, but although he heard Wray's voice, Ethan couldn't see the man among the blurred faces. There was a guy with a terrible skin disease on his face, though.

When it was over, Ethan drummed his fingers on the table. "Okay, there's another demonstration. That means we have to find him quickly. But why did this American offer to help?"

"He wants a trade. We take care of Salamander, and he gets all of the Firestorm."

Ethan laughed. "That's stupid! We're never going to agree to that!"

Swanbeck smiled. "Correct. But we mustn't tell _him_ that."

"So does he know where Wray is hiding?"

Swanbeck shook his head. "I told him about the tracking device, though. He seemed quite eager for you to get there."

Ethan stood up. "I'm ready to go," he said. Then he stumbled and fell into the chair again.

"Uh huh, sure. Why don't you have a little sleep first? Take the weight off you feet?" said Swanbeck, grinning.

Ethan nodded gratefully. "I might just do that."

* * *

Such was the state of Ethan's mind that he noticed little of the journey they undertook. He was too tired to notice where he was, or where they were going. All he knew was that they boarded a small plane, flown by Sean, and then he passed out. He regained consciousness of a sort when they landed and was dimly aware of getting off the plane and into a car. Luther drove, and Sean sat beside him, allowing Ethan to lie across the back seat. He draped a blanket over himself so no nosy policemen would interrupt his slumber. 

Eventually, the car came to a halt, and Ethan heard Luther saying, "Wake up Ethan, we're here."

A sudden blast of wind hit Ethan, fully reviving him in an instant. He sat up, and even as he tasted the salt in the air, he opened his eyes.

"Here" was a harbour, quite a large one by any standards. Seagulls screamed harshly from somewhere overhead. A number of small yachts and speedboats were pottering around in the calm water of the harbour, not daring to venture out to the turbulent sea. A large cruise ship was docked, and a steady stream of people were fighting to board it, waving pink tickets that matched their sunburnt skin at a steward, who looked as though he'd rather be somewhere else. A couple of bored men sat on a small pier, optimistically dangling their fishing rods in the water, but without much luck.

Ethan took all this in, then lay back and said, "I need an aspirin."

* * *

Two aspirin and a cup of very black coffee later, the three of them sat in a small café overlooking the water. 

"So where exactly is the signal coming from?" Sean asked.

Luther, as usual, had his laptop on the table. He brought up a map of the area they were in. A small red dot pulsed on the screen, but what was odd about it was that in was some distance out in the middle of the sea.

"So what's he doing out there?" asked Ethan.

"Well," Luther explained, "I've run a check of that particular area. There's nothing there; no islands, no oil rigs, nothing like that. So my guess is he's on some sort of ship."

Ethan groaned. That made sneaking up on Salamander a lot harder. "Any ideas on how we get on board?"

Luther shook his head. "I think we better have a look at it first, before we come to any conclusions."

Sean stood up. "I'll get us a speedboat," he said.

* * *

Ethan had never been seasick before. It was a novel experience. As the speedboat bounced over the waves, he guessed that a lack of food, a lack of sleep and some horrible coffee had combined to do this to him. 

So he was relieved when a small dot appeared on the horizon. Picking up a pair of binoculars, he peered at it.

"Yep, it's a ship alright. Looks like a big oil tanker." He pressed a button on the side of the binoculars and the image zoomed in, allowing him to read the name on the side of the ship. "_Lacerta_… I wonder what that means."

"It's Latin for "lizard"," said Sean. The other two stared at him. He grinned smugly back. "The benefits of a Classical education," he said.

Shaking his head, Ethan looked back at the _Lacerta_. He was just in time to see something cutting through the water towards them.

There was a splash, and Ethan fell in the water. He heard an explosion, and then a pair of hands gripped his shoulders. He was hauled out of the water. He looked up into a face that belonged to neither Luther nor Sean.

It belonged to Morgan Darter.

It was the last thing Ethan saw before Darter hit him on the side of the head with something very solid.

Ethan blacked out.


	9. Blaze of Glory

9

**Blaze of Glory**

Waking up to find that the whole nightmare had been a dream, that would have been good. Ethan wished it was true.

Unfortunately, this didn't seem to be the case. He was in a lot of pain, which at least indicated that he was probably still alive. His temple was throbbing where Darter had hit him, and he could feel blood oozing slowly down his face. In addition to that, his feet didn't seem to be in contact with the floor. He was hanging from what felt like a rope, tied to his hands, and it was cutting into his wrists.

All in all, he had felt better.

He still hadn't opened his eyes. There are a few things that need to be established when a person comes round after being unconscious. Number one: who am I? Ethan felt sure that he was still Ethan Hunt. Two, am I still alive? Again, the answer seemed to be yes. So that left one other question, which Ethan couldn't answer. So he said it aloud. "Where am I?"

"You are in a small room, below decks, on the starboard side of the _Lacerta_. Your arms have been bound with rope, and you have then been tied to a thick pipe running across the ceiling. You are approximately four feet above the floor. Is that precise enough? I know how you spies have to find out every last detail."

That voice… it sounded familiar. And yet it was oddly distorted. And now Ethan could hear something else – something that didn't fit at all with the scenario described.

It was the unmistakeable clatter of cutlery.

Deciding he couldn't put it off any longer, he opened his eyes. He immediately wished he hadn't.

There was some sort of demonic apparition in front of him. It looked humanoid, apart from the face.

It was a face from Hell. The skin was warped and blistered, and an angry red colour. Patches of it had bubbled and peeled away, exposing the muscle beneath. This too was burnt and was blackened in parts. One eye was half-closed, the eyebrow above it burnt off completely. And the hair was clearly supposed to be blond and spiky, but areas of it were bald, and what was left had been singed black at the tips. Ethan considered himself very lucky that his own pain would be temporary – this man's was permanent.

And then the creature spoke again. "So, you are awake at last, Mr Hunt."

And now Ethan recognised the voice. It still sounded a bit odd, since the mouth that spoke it was badly damaged. But that meant that this person was…

"Salamander?"

There was a snigger from behind Wray. As he turned round, Ethan saw that Wray was in front of a small table that had been set for four. The seat at the head, facing Ethan, was empty – presumably where Salamander had been sitting. To the left, Morgan Darter and Maxwell Vane sat side by side. And on the other side was a man Ethan had never met, yet he looked vaguely familiar. Bizarrely, the table was laden with all sorts of expensive-looking dishes. There were steaming plates of something, a large tureen of things that were possibly potatoes, a gravy boat, a bottle of red wine, plus other food that Ethan didn't know. It looked very out of place in this small cabin that was lit only by the light coming in through the single porthole.

It was the newcomer that had laughed. Wray shot him a look of pure venom. The man quickly fell silent and took a gulp of wine, avoiding Wray's wrathful gaze.

Turning back to Ethan, Wray said, "I prefer Seymour Wray, if it's all the same to you."

Wray returned to his seat. "Now you undoubtedly have some questions."

Ethan nodded. "For a start, I'd like to know why you changed your appearance again. You looked better as the greasy lizard we all knew."

Wray casually picked up his knife. He stood up again, and walked over to Ethan. Leaning very close, he said, "You are not in a position to make jokes, Mr Hunt. I'd advise you to be quiet." And with that, he drove the knife into Ethan's thigh.

Ethan gasped. As if he wasn't in enough pain already.

"I am going to make you suffer, Ethan," said Wray, removing the knife. This time, he plunged it into Ethan's arm. "I can stab the heart next," he whispered.

And then, quite suddenly, he stepped back. He returned to his seat, leaving the knife sticking out of Ethan's arm.

"But why would I do that, when we have so much to talk about?" he said, smiling. "I want you to understand the sort of man I am. Then, you will know why you never had a chance against me."

"Do you mind if I smoke?" asked the other man.

Wray looked at him. "Not now. Wait until we're outside."

Ethan noted that the man was American. And then, with a jolt, he suddenly remembered where he had seen him before.

"You're Thomas Troy!" he exclaimed.

Salamander raised his hand for silence. "Yes, Ethan. But Tom only comes into my story at the end. Let me tell you the whole thing."

He leaned back, and began talking. "I'm sure you don't want to know about where I was born, and so forth. My life only became interesting about two and a half years ago, when my good friend Max Vane," here he nodded at Vane, "rang me up one day and told me that he had made a discovery. Working for Pyrostar, he had studied one of the most powerful forces on Earth – a firestorm. An enormous blaze that cannot be controlled, and is only contained because it consumes the oxygen around it too quickly for it to spread. Max theorised that it was possible to create such a thing artificially.

"Naturally, I was interested. If I could have a weapon like that, nothing could stop me! So we made a plan. While he continued ostensibly working for Pyrostar, I disguised myself as the most disgusting creature imaginable and joined IMF. After all, looks aren't important. While he built Firestorm, I waited. And then, a short time before the weapon was finally ready, I met Morgan Darter. In a wildly misguided effort, he was trying to kill me. I showed him the error of his ways, and then recruited him to do my bidding.

"When Firestorm was actually finished, the whole plan came together easily. Max and Darter stole it, and burned all evidence of it. They also killed all those who knew about the weapon. The next step involved you, Ethan. Hiring two Russian mercenaries to act as guards, I arranged a fake meeting between you and myself, disguised as Vladimir Petravich. The day before the meeting, I had Petravich killed so he couldn't interfere by accident. Then I treated you to a demonstration of the power of Firestorm. I left you convinced that the Russian Mafiya were to blame. So, while you chased after them, I could get on with manufacturing more Firestorm, at the Archangel facility.

"I quickly realised that you were unwilling to believe the Mafiya were behind it. So, when you went to LA, I called Darter and told him to kill you. He failed."

Wray paused, and looked at Darter. Darter shrugged.

Taking up the narrative again, Wray went on, "Nevertheless, I continued with my plan. I had the staff at Archangel killed, and transferred all the equipment to the _Lacerta_, where we could continue making Firestorm. Deciding to finally abandon my role as an IMF agent, since you were close to discovering me, I made a last-ditch effort to kill you at the ice rink. However, that too failed, and left me considerably worse off. It drove me to advance my plan a lot faster than I intended.

"I had a meeting with some of the top criminals in the world, with the intention of offering them the use of Firestorm – for a price. They were impressed by the demonstration, but requested that I chose a less flammable target than a farmhouse. This was exactly what I had hoped for, as I already had a target in mind. It was simple – IMF headquarters. In one move, I could remove everyone who knew I was behind the Firestorm theft.

"So I constructed a larger missile, and it is here – on the _Lacerta_. It is ready to fire at any given moment. But I had to deal with you first. So I asked Tom Troy to do me a special favour – namely, to lead you to me. He did his job admirably. When we saw your boat approaching, I sent Darter out on a jet ski to capture you. Sadly, Darter failed again. Sean Crain and Luther Stickell are still alive – they escaped.

"But at least I have you. So I will let you suffer for a while, watching us eat delicious food, and then, I will kill you." Wray toasted Ethan with his glass, as did the others. Troy downed the drink in one go, but none of the others touched it.

Ethan's mind was racing. Of course, he was considerably distracted by the knife that was still embedded in his arm. But if Luther and Sean were still alive, then maybe there was a chance.

The door opened. A man dressed in uniform came in, and whispered something in Wray's ear. Wray stood up. "It would seem," he said, grinning (and when he did so, it gave a whole new meaning to "twisted smile"), "Firestorm is ready ahead of schedule. If you will excuse me, Ethan, I have to go and kill all your work colleagues. But I will be back."

Wray exited the room, followed by all the others.

Ethan was in big trouble. How could he get out of this one?

* * *

"Ten million dollars, as agreed," said Wray, handing over a very heavy suitcase. Troy took it, weighed it in his hand, and then said, "No, you keep it. I know how it goes. You give me that, and pretty soon it will blow up and kill me, saving you a lot of money. You know my account number, pay me electronically. It will let me live dream. I'm not going to fade from this world; I'm going out in a blaze of glory!" 

"As you wish," replied Salamander, helping him into a speedboat. Vane and Darter were watching.

"Goodbye, Mr Troy. You were most useful." Wray nodded to Darter, who pressed a button. Like a cannon, the speedboat shot forward and over the edge. It flew down and finally landed in the water. Troy turned back, and waved. He started up the engine.

Wray looked round at Vane. "It would seem you are correct, Max."

Troy was speeding away now. He took a moment to extract a cigar from his pocket, and lit it.

Smoking kills. It killed Thomas Troy. The man was no longer a man, but a ball of fire. He simply went from human to flame in no time at all. Then, with a bang, both he and the boat disappeared.

Wray laughed softly. "He was right. He _did_ go out in a blaze of glory. You were correct, Max. Firestorm is not toxic to humans. He was able to drink three glasses of it, mixed with the red wine, but he didn't notice until he breathed his alcoholic breath on the lighter."

Wray now rubbed his hands a little too gleefully to be sane, and said, "Now, I need to sort out Luther and Sean. They shouldn't be too much trouble as they won't recognise me. Darter, load up another boat with weapons. I'm going into town to find and kill the other IMF agents. Meanwhile, Max, I want you to start the countdown for Firestorm. The sooner, the better. And that only leaves Hunt." Wray held out his hand. Getting the message, Darter handed him a gun.

"Since it is no longer necessary to waste time, I've had my fun. So Max, you prepare Firestorm. Darter, you load up a boat. And I will kill Ethan Hunt."


	10. Countdown

10

**Countdown**

Ethan felt certain he was going to die. There didn't seem to be any way out of this situation. It was not a nice feeling.

From his position he could see the ocean out the porthole, and was witness to the demise of the unfortunate Thomas Troy. Wray was clearly a psychotic madman, and Ethan was under no illusions. When Salamander came back, he would kill Ethan. If Ethan was going to escape, it had to be now.

He turned his head around to try and see if there was anything he could possibly use. As he did so, his head hit the knife that was still sticking out of his arm.

* * *

Salamander whistled a merry tune as he descended. In less than an hour, IMF would cease to exist. That would be an adequate demonstration for the buyers.

* * *

It was a crazy plan, but it was the only thing he could think of. Ethan gripped the rope above him firmly, and pulled himself up slightly. His arms protested, and the rope cut even deeper into his wrists, but he kept going. He knew what the alternative was. 

When his mouth was level with the knife handle, he twisted round and bit on it. Slowly, very slowly, he pulled it out with his teeth. He seemed to have crossed the pain threshold, for now he was completely ignoring the fact that his arms were screaming in agony. Finally, the knife slid out of his arm, but he took great care not to drop it. Still holding it between his teeth, he pulled himself up further, as high as he could go. He was used to doing this exercise during training, but somehow this was different. The effort was forcing a lot more blood out of the gash in his arm than he would have liked.

But he made it eventually. He raised his face right up to his hands, and briefly let go of the rope with one of them. He quickly grabbed the knife as his body gave up and fell back to the hanging position.

He stayed like that for a few moments, exhausted and still in great pain. And then he heard a sound.

A metallic, robotic voice was echoing around the ship. It said, "Project Firestorm initiated. Countdown has begun. Missile launch in T minus ten minutes, and counting."

A new sense of urgency filled Ethan, and he twisted his hand until the knife came into contact with the rope. He took about a minute to saw through it, but at the moment, every second counted.

At last, he dropped to the floor. His feet gave way under him, and he collapsed. But he forced himself to his feet. He had to ignore the pain, and the blood oozing out of him (from his head, his arm _and_ his leg). He had more important things to do.

He tucked the knife into his belt. It wasn't much of a weapon, but it was better than no weapon at all. He half-ran, half-hobbled out of the room.

He had to find out where the missile was. Logically, it would have to be fired from the deck, so he looked for a way up. Finding a flight of iron steps, he ran up them. How far down the ship was he? How many more floors did he need to climb?

He heard the voice again, stating, "T minus five minutes and counting."

Ethan swore. This was definitely not his day. Spurred on by the lack of time he had, he raced along yet another dark and dingy corridor, and found another flight of stairs.

He rounded a corner, into another corridor, and was halfway along it when another figure appeared at the far end.

It was Darter. Seeing him, Darter ran forward, at the same time producing a handgun. Ethan spotted a door beside him, and he dived through it, pulling it shut behind him. He looked around.

This must be the lab where the Firestorm was created. There were all sorts of test tubes and weird glass bottles sitting around, some of them full of a blood-red liquid. There were hi-tech computers and other devices that Ethan had never seen before, some of them probing various substances of varying colours. A dish containing a bright green liquid was bubbling over a Bunsen burner. Things popped, clicked, and beeped all around Ethan.

And then a man stood up. Ethan hadn't noticed him before. Maxwell Vane looked shocked to see Ethan. Taking advantage of this, Ethan hit him on the side of the head. Vane crumpled.

Ethan dashed on through the lab, hoping there was another exit, but then he heard the sound he had been dreading.

It was the sound of a gun being cocked.

Ethan turned around slowly, raising his hands. Darter was pointing the gun at him, and advancing with a gleeful look in his eyes.

"I failed to kill you last time. This time there will be no mistakes."

And then the computerised voice boomed out again. "T minus two minutes and counting."

Two minutes? Where had the time gone? Ethan hadn't noticed it passing.

Darter's face broke into a wide grin. "Yes, Hunt, it's over. For you, anyway." He was several metres away, but even he couldn't have missed at that distance. He raised the gun to point at Ethan's head, and said, "Goodbye, Ethan Hunt."

He pulled the trigger.


	11. Fire and Water

11

**Fire and Water**

Ironically, it was thanks to Salamander that Ethan survived Darter's shot. At the precise moment the African fired, Ethan's legs, which were screaming from the pain Salamander had caused, finally gave up. They buckled under him, and he fell to the floor. The bullet whizzed over his head.

Darter's eyes widened. After a moment of surprise, he had the presence of mind to aim again.

Ethan got unsteadily to his feet. As he did so, he carefully grasped a test tube on the work surface he was leaning against.

Darter flicked back the hammer on the gun. He smiled at Ethan. "I'll try again, shall I?" he asked.

Ethan shrugged. "Go ahead. Make my day."

Darter fired. And this time Ethan was ready.

The moment Darter's finger tightened on the trigger, Ethan swung the test tube round and threw it. Darter instinctively corrected his aim to shoot it instead.

This was a bad idea. The tube was full of a blood-red liquid.

The bullet hit the Firestorm and ignited it.

Immediately, the air between Ethan and Darter became a wall of flame. Neither could see the other anymore. Darter yelled and stumbled backwards from the sheer force of the heat emanating from the fire. The floor buckled and began melting. So did the ceiling. It dawned on Darter that if any more Firestorm caught fire, the whole place would go up.

Thankfully, the rest of the Firestorm was no affected by the blaze. It lasted about ten seconds, after which the air immediately cleared.

Ethan had gone.

Darter, on instinct, whipped round, just as Ethan crashed into him from the side. The two men went sprawling to the floor, and Darter's gun slid under a table.

At this point, Vane regained consciousness. He opened his eyes.

Darter had the advantage in this fight. He was stronger than Ethan, and Ethan was in considerable pain anyway. Darter picked Ethan up bodily and threw him at the nearest bench. As he landed, Ethan knocked over a beaker of Firestorm, which quickly spread over the floor.

Darter advanced on Ethan, his face grim, his fists clenched, ready to fight.

Vane was behind him, climbing to his feet, at little dazed.

Ethan looked at Darter. Darter looked back, and took another step.

Then Ethan slipped the knife out of his belt. As it turned out, he had been wise to hold on to it. He twisted round and threw it at Darter.

Darter saw it coming. He stepped to the side, dodging it easily. The knife sailed past him.

Vane glanced up. He was aware of something slicing through the air towards him, and then he died.

Darter spun round when he heard the gurgle. The knife was buried in Vane's throat. Vane spluttered, and then fell backwards over a table. He slid off it, onto the ground, and moved no more.

Fresh anger surged through Darter. He roared, and rounded on Ethan. What he saw was a sheet of red flying towards him.

Ethan wasn't stupid. The moment Darter had been distracted by Vane's death, he had seized a jar of Firestorm and hurled the contents of it at Darter. The liquid splashed over the assassin, soaking him.

Darter screamed. Some of it had hit his eyes, and he was temporarily blinded.

Ethan ran for the door, even as he heard a voice saying, "T minus one minute, and counting."

As he passed, he grabbed the Bunsen burner, and threw it at Darter.

Morgan Darter was transformed. He was no longer human, but a blazing figure stumbling around, yelling in pain.

The floor was already coated in Firestorm. Now it ignited.

Ethan dashed up another flight of stairs, just as an explosion rocked the entire ship violently. He came to a door, and wrenched it open, as the air behind him grew distinctly warmer.

To his relief, he felt cold, salty air on his face. He had made it! He ran through the door and literally hit the deck as a burst of fire exited the door just behind him. He rolled, and ran around the deck of the ship, looking for a way off.

"T minus thirty seconds, and counting."

Ethan suddenly realised what was going to happen. The missile was full of Firestorm. And the ship was quickly burning. The rocket wouldn't get a chance to take off.

Another explosion. The entire middle of the ship seemed to leap upwards, disappearing in a tower of fire. Bits of red-hot metal were raining down.

And then Ethan saw the boat. A speedboat was sitting, ready to leave. Without thinking, Ethan leapt into it. Even as he started it up, he heard a deep rumbling.

"T minus ten – ERROR ERROR ERR-"

Ethan gunned the engine. The boat shot forward, off the ship, and hung in midair for a moment.

Behind him, the ship exploded as a whole. The entire thing was blasted to pieces as the missile that had been intended for IMF headquarters detonated.

The speedboat landed, and continued through the water, towards the harbour. Ethan looked back.

It was as if the _Lacerta_ had never existed. There was simply nothing left but the debris floating around. It was over.

And then, like a vampire rising from the crypt, Seymour Wray threw off the tarpaulin that he had been lurking under, and sprang up. With a face like his, the parallel wasn't difficult to draw. Ethan was so shocked, Wray managed to hit him square in the face.

Ethan fell back on a lever. Immediately, the boat shot forward with a huge burst of speed. Wray fell backwards, allowing Ethan to get up again.

There was a crate on the floor of the boat. It seemed to be full of weapons. He dived for it, but Wray kicked him away. As Ethan rolled, Wray picked up an AK-47. He grinned. When he had told Darter to load up a boat with weapons, Darter had taken the words literally.

But now Ethan was up again, too. On such a small speedboat, there was no room to fire, so instead Wray swung the butt of the gun at Ethan. Ethan ducked. He dived at Salamander, who went sprawling to the floor of the boat.

Ethan now had the opportunity to grab a weapon. The first thing that came to hand was a harpoon gun. He tried to aim it at Salamander but the other man was too fast, and drove the machine gun into Ethan's stomach.

Ethan doubled up from the pain. Then he heard a sound.

It was the hooting of a large ship.

Looking round, Ethan saw that they had arrived at the harbour. The cruise ship was just departing, hooting its horn enthusiastically.

Wray saw it too. He kicked Ethan, and then grabbed the wheel to avoid crashing into the wall beside them.

The boat reached the mouth of the harbour, and sped into it. Wray hit Ethan on the back, and frantically twisted the wheel as they weaved through all the other boats.

The large cruise ship was gliding through the water towards the point where Ethan and Wray had come in.

Ethan kicked Wray, who let go of the wheel. The boat suddenly veered across the water, directly behind the cruise ship. They hit its wake and the boat tossed violently. It made it to calm water on the other side, but not before flipping most of the weapons, and Ethan, into the water.

Wray cut the engine, turned the boat round, and seized the machine gun. Ethan's head bobbed up to the surface, and Wray aimed at it.

Realising what was happening, Ethan dived, just before the bullets smashed into the water. He swam to the only available cover, which was directly below the speedboat.

"Come on then, Hunt!" screamed Wray. "Show me what you were trained for!"

He was still firing at the water randomly. Ethan knew there was no chance of getting back on the boat without being mown down. If he had some sort of weapon…

Something flashed in the water. He looked round. Some metallic object had caught the light from the surface.

It was the harpoon gun.

Wray ran out of bullets. Quick as a flash, he ejected the magazine, and inserted a fresh one. He immediately opened fire again. "Show me how to do it!" he yelled. "Come on, Hunt, show me how it's done! How do you kill someone like me?"

Ethan grabbed the harpoon gun. He aimed it at the only available target – the underside of the boat. He fired.

The harpoon hit the hull of the speedboat at point-blank range. This drove it straight through the hull, and then straight through Salamander. It hit him in the stomach, and proceeded through him diagonally, exiting through his shoulder blades. It finally came to a stop like that, with most of it stuck in Wray, and the head of the spear protruding from his back.

The bullets stopped. Ethan, bursting for oxygen, surfaced. He looked at Wray. Wray looked at him. The burned, tortured face twisted into a sort of grin. Then Wray made a small burbling sound, and a trickle of blood ran down from his mouth. Salamander collapsed.

As he fell, he leaned on a lever; the same one Ethan had fallen on before.

Immediately, the boat sprang to life again. It suddenly shot off at an angle, towards where they had come in. Ethan was left behind, treading water. But he didn't particularly want to be on the boat. He could see where it was going.

Wray, not quite dead yet, found that the water around him was suddenly very choppy.

He found the strength to raise his head, to see where he was going.

The last thing Seymour "Salamander" Wray ever saw was one of the huge propellers at the back of the cruise ship.

Ethan turned away as the boat sped straight into the spinning fan. The ship carried on its way as though nothing had happened. It didn't even notice Salamander.

A small boat pulled up beside Ethan. It was Sean and Luther. He gratefully allowed himself to be dragged into the boat.

As they returned to dry land, Ethan watched the cruise ship disappear into the horizon.


	12. Destroyed By Fire

Epilogue

**Destroyed By Fire**

"I am under the impression," said Swanbeck, "that asking you if you managed to recover a sample of the Firestorm, for tests, would be a silly idea."

Ethan shrugged. He just wanted to go home. His entire body was still complaining, but he had dozed off on the journey back to IMF headquarters, and felt slightly better. He would probably have a scar or two, through.

"Now," said Swanbeck, pacing the room, "you will remember that a similar thing occurred when we asked you to hunt down Sean Ambrose and stop him releasing the _Chimera_ virus. We wanted a sample of it to study, but you failed to provide one. Your excuse was that it was destroyed by fire. What's the excuse this time?"

Ethan grinned. "Well, it's funny you should say that, because as a matter of fact…"

Swanbeck raised his hand to silence Ethan. "I don't want to hear it. It's probably best this way, in all honesty. And we are all indebted to you, Ethan. Without you, we'd all be toast." He smiled. "All right Mr Hunt, you can go."

Ethan gratefully headed for the door. He paused before leaving, and turned. "If there are any other assignments…?"

Swanbeck looked up in surprise. "I was going to let you rest for a while, after that Firestorm business. Sending you on assignment now would make things difficult, nearly impossible for you."

Ethan grinned again. "As the late Seymour Wray discovered, impossible is my business."

THE END


End file.
